Friday, 16 September 2016

Mishra had just raised the earthen cup of tea to
his lips when the cthulhu arrived.

Mishra had been
waiting for the cthulhu for three days, out in the street, from morning till
night. He’d almost given up in despair, and indeed he would have, if his bank account
only afforded him the luxury. But he needed the job.

Of course, the
astrologer his mother had insisted he visit had assured him he’d get it. “Let
me look at your horoscope,” the man had said, bending over signs on a scrap of
paper. “Yes, all you have to do is wear your birthstone, and you’ll get the
job.”

“Birthstone?” Mishra
had asked. “What’s a birthstone?”

He’d found out soon
enough. And it was now on his finger, set in a godawful chunky ring, so thick
he could barely bend the digit. It had cost him four thousand, a sum he totally
couldn’t afford, but his mother had insisted.

“You want me to go to
my funeral pyre worrying because you don’t have a job?” she’d shrieked. And
Mishra, whose heart always dropped to the pit of his stomach when his mother
began screaming, had given meekly in.

But that was almost
three weeks ago. Mishra had sent in his application, after filling it in at an
auspicious moment decreed by the astrologer...and nothing had happened. He’d
waited a week, and then another, and still nothing. And so it was that he’d
finally taken to waiting in the street outside the office to see if he could
get a moment with the cthulhu to state his case.

The first day he’d
tried going in, but the doorman had stepped firmly in his way. “No entry except
for employees,” he’d clicked.

“I just want to...”
Mishra had begun.

“No entry except for
employees,” the doorman had repeated, in exactly the same tone of voice, his needle
teeth clicking in his thick-lipped jaws. The enormous breadth of his head had
allowed his round eyes to stare just past Mishra’s ears. Mishra had wondered if
that was all the human speech he knew, and had briefly considered asking him a
couple of more questions to find out. But the sight of the doorman’s immense
muscles, rolling under his pebbly green skin, had been too much of a deterrent,
and Mishra had retreated to the street, there to spend the next three days,
becoming increasingly frustrated and losing hope by the minute.

And here, just as he’d
almost made up his mind to give up and go home, there was the cthulhu, getting
out of a car right there in front of the office!

Mishra was so
astonished that he accidentally gulped half the scalding brown contents of the
cup and burnt his tongue and throat. He couldn’t even take time to gasp for
breath, because the cthulhu was already beginning to lumber up the pavement
towards the office door, the green doorman moving to open it for him. Throwing
down the earthen cup to shatter on the pavement, splashing tea everywhere,
Mishra began rushing across the street.

He didn’t rush very
far. Someone clutched his sleeve and pulled him back so hard he almost fell
over on to the spilt tea. Windmilling the one arm he had free, he just managed
to recover in time.

It was the tea vendor.
“Oi sahib,” he snapped, “where is my money?”

“Later,” Mishra said,
trying to extricate himself, but the vendor’s grip was potent. Mishra had to
choose between leaving his sleeve in the man’s hand and standing still. He
chose to stand still. “I said I’d pay later.”

“You pay now. I heard
this later talk many times. No later.”

“All right.” Mishra
threw a despairing glance across the street as he plunged his hand into his
pocket, fishing out the first note his fingers encountered. The cthulhu had
stopped to take a call on his mobile phone. The cluster of tentacles around his
mouth twisted like snakes as he talked. “Here.”

“You give five
rupees,” the vendor demanded. Mishra looked at the money he’d given the man. It
was a five hundred rupee note, the
last one he possessed. “I have no change.”

“But...” Across the
street, the cthulhu had finished his call and had begun thumping up the stairs
to the office door. “Take this,” Mishra said, ripping off the ring and dropping
it into the vendor’s hand. “An astrologer said it’s lucky.” Leaving the vendor
still staring at the ring, he raced across the street. Horns blared and brakes
squealed, and there was the crash of crumpled metal and shattering glass. But
Mishra managed to get across in one piece, and the cthulhu was still only
halfway up the stairs.

Mishra caught him before
he reached the door. “Sir,” he said desperately, stopping himself just in time
before he pulled at the cthulhu’s near wing. “I need to talk to you.”

The cthulhu turned. He
wasn’t a very large cthulhu, being only about a head taller than Mishra and
four times as broad. His triangular eyes glittered and his tentacles twisted
dangerously, but his voice was soft and quite polite. “Yes?”

“You advertised for an
assistant – a human assistant.”

“Yes, I did,” the
cthulhu acknowledged. “But that was weeks ago.” He turned to go.

This time Mishra did
pull at the wing. He couldn’t stop himself. The feel of the thing was like wet
leather. “Sir, please. I sent in an application...”

The cthulhu shook his
wing irritably, nearly sending Mishra stumbling. “You’ll be called for an
interview,” he said over what passed for his shoulder. “Come then.”

“You mean the position
isn’t filled yet?” Mishra felt a sudden surge of hope. “Sir, I’m right here.
Why don’t you take the interview right now?”

The cthulhu turned
again, filling the doorway so completely that the green doorman had to step
inside. “Persistent, aren’t you?” Grey nictitating membranes flicked over his
triangular eyes. “Go away.”

The cthulhu frowned,
his eyes nearly vanishing into the caves of flesh under his brow ridges. He
tilted his enormous head, like a pot that was about to roll off his shoulders.
“I can’t give you the job unless you’re fit for it,” he said.

“I’ll do anything,”
Mishra promised. “You tell me what you want done, and I’ll do it.”

“All right, then,” the
cthulhu said. “I’ll give you a test. If you get it right, you’ve got the job.”

“What test?” Mishra
asked.

“Nothing very hard,”
the cthulhu informed him. He rummaged in his briefcase and brought out a brown
envelope. “Go to that address, and meet the dagon there. He’ll give you a packet.
Bring it back.”

“That’s all?” Mishra
took the envelope. It was empty and the address scrawled on it was almost
illegible. “That’s all I have to do?”

“That’s all,” the
cthulhu confirmed. “Come back with the packet and the job is yours.”

“Er...” Mishra had a
thought. “How should I get the packet to you? I can’t get inside.”

“Give it to the
doorman,” the cthulhu said. He pointed at Mishra and said something in a stream
of sound to the green-skinned form squeezed deferentially behind him. “He’ll
bring you to me.”

“All right, then,”
Mishra said. “I’ll go right now.” He had another thought. “How soon do you want...” he began, but the
cthulhu had already disappeared into the office, and all he saw was the
doorman.

“No entry except for
employees,” the doorman clicked affably.

**************************************************

The address on the envelope was all the way
across town. Mishra took the metro until the last stop, changing lines twice on
the way. It had been raining elsewhere in the city, and many of the new
passengers were sopping wet. The carriage smelt like wet dog and felt like
midday in a rainforest.

Mishra emerged on the
surface with relief. He’d never really been in this part of the city before,
and had to look around a while before he could get his bearings. The buildings
were all strangely shaped, too low or too high or all angles, and some of them
had doors that opened halfway up the walls. This was not surprising; there
weren’t that many humans here.

The dagon’s building,
when he found it, was at least accessible, though the door was low and partly
sunken into the pavement. An Outsider opened the door to him and moaned
inquiringly.

“I want to meet the
dagon,” Mishra said, trying not to look at the thing’s decaying face. “I’ve
been sent by a cthulhu.”

The glassy orbs which
passed for the Outsider’s eyes roved up and down, and it finally nodded. Its
rotting burial shroud brushed Mishra’s knee as he followed it. Little white
moths flew up like specks of animated dust.

The passage was slimy
with water crawling down the walls and spreading across the floor. Light the
colour of late stage jaundice oozed from thick-walled glass globes set in the
ceiling. And the passage went on and on and on.

“Where is the dagon?”
Mishra asked, after they’d been walking so long that when he looked over his
shoulder he could no longer see the entrance. “Is it much furher?”

The Outsider moaned
reassuringly and led Mishra further down the passage. The water that was
trickling down the walls had begun accumulating here, and splashed up with
every step. Mishra wished he’d worn gumboots, but then the water suddenly
deepened to his knees.

“Wait!” he yelled. “I
can’t swim!”

The Outsider moaned
again and gestured to the side. Mishra saw something against the wall, bobbing
against the water. At first he thought it was a boat, and was just about to say
that he couldn’t row either. Then he saw a flash of beady black eye, and knew
it was something else.

“Get on my back,” the
thing muttered in a froth of bubbly water. “And try not to fall off!”

It wasn’t easy. For one
thing, the creature’s skin was slippery as though it had been soaped. For
another, Mishra didn’t want to look at it, because he had a suspicion that if
he could see what it really was like, he’d jump off into the water and drown.
As it was, the feeling of many, many tentacles writhing in the water, and
brushing against his legs, was bad enough.

“I have to get a
packet from the dagon,” he muttered through gritted teeth, as though the thing
had asked for an explanation. It didn’t bother to reply.

The passage seemed to
go on forever. Now the walls had curved inward to form an arched roof overhead,
and the jaundiced light had deepened until he felt as though they were
travelling through bile. But still the Outsider swam ahead, and the thing on
which he sat followed steadily.

“Do I really need this
job so much?” Mishra asked. “Maybe I could find something else. Maybe I could
set up as an astrologer.”

“Do you know anything
about astrology?” the creature under him asked. Its words bubbled up through
the water like belches. “Well?”

Mishra had to admit he
didn’t. “I still need a job, though.”

“If you don’t find one
you like,” the thing bubbled, “you could come and see me. I might be able to
employ you as a beast of burden.”

“A beast of burden?”
Mishra echoed, appalled.

“Why not? You’re using me as one, aren’t you?”

Mishra closed his
mouth with a snap. Even on the creature’s back, the water had risen until it
lapped at his thighs, and his underwear was soaked. Besides, he was hungry.
Apart from the third of a cup of scalding tea, he hadn’t eaten all day.

The passage split into
two. To the left, stairs rose out of the water. The Outsider moaned and
pointed.

The Outsider moaned again and pointed up the stairs. Its moan sounded
impatient.

“I’d get along if I were you,” the creature advised.

Mishra got along.

The staircase was only a short one. At the top there was a small door.
On it was a sign. KNOCK AND ENTER, it said.

Mishra knocked and entered.

The dagon was sitting at a table. Some of its eyes glanced up at Mishra.
The rest were fixed on the plates from which three or four of its tentacles
were busily transferring food to its parrot-beak.

“Come in then,” it said, after Mishra had gawked at it for a while. Its
parrot-beak continued working. “Had breakfast?”

Mishra shook his head automatically. The dagon’s vast bulk rippled with
displeasure. “Eat then,” it said, indicating a plate with the tip of one clawed
tentacle. “What are you waiting for?”

The plate was filled with dark leathery strips. Mishra chewed one, only
because he didn’t want to offend the dagon by refusing. Then he chewed another,
because the first hadn’t been half bad. And then suddenly the plate was empty.

The dagon was still eating. “Now what do you want?” it asked.

Mishra tried to remember, and for a moment couldn’t think. Then he felt
the soggy mass of the envelope in his pocket. “The cthulhu sent me to you for a
packet,” he said.

“Which cthulhu?”

“I don’t know its name.” Mishra mentioned the office. “It said I had to
get a packet from you to give it.”

“Oh, that cthulhu. Here you
go.” The dagon reached under the table and fished out a packet done up in white
cloth. “All it needed to do was ask me to post it. Why send you?”

“I needed a job.”

The dagon began to make a noise. The noise grew louder and louder. Its
parrot-beak clacked, spraying bits of food over the table. Mishra retreated,
alarmed.

“Go on,” the dagon said, still making the noise. “Take the packet and
get out.”

Mishra took the packet and got out as fast as he could.

It was only when he was again on the creature’s back, following the
Outsider up the arched passage, that he realised what the noise had been.

The dagon had been laughing.

******************************************************

The policeman stopped Mishra just as he stepped
off the Metro. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, politely enough.

“Yes?” Mishra asked, impatiently at first, before he realised the
policeman wasn’t human. It was a nyarlathotep, of course. Most of the police
these days were nyarlathotep. “Yes?” he repeated, much less impatiently.

“May I ask what you have in that packet?” the nyarlathotep pointed at
Mishra’s hand.

“I, ah, I’m taking this for a cthulhu,” Mishra said. “A dagon gave it to
me.”

“That’s not what I asked,” the nyarlathotep replied. He sounded less
polite. “What do you have in that packet?”

Mishra felt the sweat start out on his brow. He could feel all the eyes
around, staring curiously. God! Suppose the media was there, taking photos?
Suppose he ended up on the news? His mother would never live down the disgrace.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I told you, a dagon gave it to me for a cthulhu.”

The nyarlathotep stared at Mishra. His eyes were yellow, the pupils
vertical like a cat’s. “You’ll have to come with me,” he said.

“Why?” Mishra asked frantically. He felt a sensation like goose pimples
on his arms and legs. “What have I done?”

The nyarlathotep’s hand clamped down on Mishra’s wrist. “You don’t have
any right to ask that,” he said. “Come along.”

Mishra went along.

The police station was dingy and smaller than Mishra had expected from
the movies. There was no cell in the corner with a prisoner staring out, hands
clutching the bars. The nyarlathotep pushed Mishra towards a chair and sat down
on the other side. “The packet,” he said.

Mishra handed him the packet. He held it up, shook it, and frowned. “There
doesn’t seem to be anything inside. What have you done with what it had inside?”

“Yes, you can go,” the nyarlathotep said, diving under the desk. His
muffled tones sounded from below. “In fact, I insist you go. Get out of here!”

Mishra, once again, got.

*****************************************************************

The cthulhu was busy on the phone. He glanced up
at Mishra and nodded to his desk. Mishra put the box down and waited.

At last the cthulhu finished his conversation. “So, you got it?” he
said, not bothering to look at the packet. His triangular orange eyes stared at Mishra. “Any
problems?”

Mishra thought about detailing all his problems, but decided it might be
better not to begin whining to the cthulhu right away. “No, sir,” he said. “When
do I start on the job?”

“The job?” The cthulhu’s tentacles twitched. “What job?”

“The one you promised me,” Mishra said. He felt a stone settle in his
stomach. “The assistant’s job you advertised for.”

“Yes,” the cthulhu affirmed. “But that was for a human assistant.”

“I know. I’m hu...” Mishra stopped. The crawling on his skin erupted
again. He looked down at his hands. The pattern of green scales was already
forming.

“You went and ate the dagon’s food, didn’t you?” The cthulhu shook his
head. “Stupid humans, eating dagon food while carrying a Colour Out Of Space.
What did you think would happen?” He sounded disgusted. “Always the same,
thinking of your belly, nothing else. Now you’re an ex-human, but still as
stupid. Go away.”

Mishra went away.

*****************************************************************

“Hoi, sahib.” The tea vendor accosted Mishra the
moment he came down the steps. “I want my tea money.”

“Again?” Mishra tried to shake off the vendor, but the man’s grip was
potent. “I gave you a ring worth four thousand rupees.”

“Four thousand rupees?” the tea vendor spat. “I went to a jeweller. He
said it wasn’t worth four rupees. Four thousand indeed!”

Mishra sighed and felt in his pockets. All he came up with was the waterlogged
corpse of the five hundred rupee note. It disintegrated in his fingers.

“Do you want a partner in your business?” he asked. “I think I could
learn to sell some tea.”

Tuesday, 13 September 2016

Etymology: From Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, democratically elected
immensely popular president evil dictator of Russia.

Synonyms: Putler, Stalin, Hitler, Trump.

Example: “How dare you praise Putin? Are you a Trump supporter? Are you? Are you?!?”

Note: Normally, I insert a statement to the effect that anyone whose
feelings are hurt by my cartoons or writing deserves it. Today, I am not making
that statement, because any Killary Klingon supporter who reads this is too
hypocritical and despicable to have any feelings anyway.